I Could Get Used to This
by Awasteofbytes
Summary: Wanderlust!Scott got stranded abroad. Inspired by a post by c-is-for-circinate on Tumblr.


Scott's garret was tiny, hot and musty, but it had two advantages: the window was just big enough to squeeze through and the view from the roof was magnificent. He loved to watch the sunrise, when it was still cool and relatively quiet. A little breeze would have been nice, though, but then again, his coffee would cool off quicker. He suddenly realised he never really drank coffee before he came here.

These moments when he was truly alone always made him a bit melancholic. He had expected to miss Stiles and his mother, but he hadn't expected to miss Allison and Isaac too. He felt a tang of guilt that he hadn't called anyone yet.

He did send them postcards, saying he was doing fine. Hopefully, it wasn't too obvious money was thigh as he had to send them all separately over a period of weeks. It would undermine the reassurance that he was doing fine.

Scott was sure he should feel tired, but going to bed seemed pointless. He wasn't going to sleep any time soon. He thumbed through the second hand dictionary they gave him, or lent him, he wasn't too sure. He thought he had learnt some French in school, but now he was actually in France, things were a bit more complicated. Sure, all he really needed at work so far were '_d'accord_', '_pas d'histoires'_ and occasionally '_casse-toi_'. Usually his physique and angry stare did the talking for him. Maybe one of his co-workers was still at the club. He could have a chat with the bartender, who was pretty talkative, even for French standards, and he seemed to have a soft spot for Scott.

Scott grimaced. Fuck, they _all_ had a soft spot for '_le p'tit américain_'. He felt more like a mascot than a bouncer at times. It was cool, he guessed, it was hard to find a job that included (shabby) lodging when you don't speak the language and don't have any particular skill. And the patronne had assured him, in her heavily accented English, that he could keep all his clothes on. He was the bouncer, not one of the _artistes_. Why she felt the need to mention it was beyond him.

The traffic four floors beneath him started to intensify and he caught the faint smell of fresh bread he had been waiting for. Time for breakfast part two.

I can get used to this, Scott thought as he sat on a bench at the place des Vosges, nibbling on his second chocolate croissant. He only had had enough money with him for two and since that was not much for a young werewolf he had to take his time to make his stomach believe it was actual breakfast.

Two girls walked by. He said '_bonjour'_ as Frenchy as he could. They giggled, said something back in French and walked on. One of them turned around and blew him a kiss before leaving the park. It was a beautiful day and nobody had tried to kill him in months. Yeah, he could get used to this.

But was this what he wanted? His impromptu world tour had come to a standstill. The transatlantic flight cost him a sweet penny and Paris was an expensive place to live. He was happy he didn't have to sleep in the subway anymore, and he scraped a living, but he worked long nights and consequently didn't have much time to go sightseeing.

As he was evaluating his situation, his body finally noticed he had been up for twenty hours straight. On his way back to his room, he started thinking of a first draft of a new plan. He was determined to stay until he learnt a reasonable level of French. Seeing he was almost broke, he would probably be here for some time, so no problem there. And after that?

And after that?

He had no idea what he wanted to do next. He didn't know if he wanted to go anywhere else in Europe, or go anywhere else in the world or if he wanted go back to America – once he could afford it.

Again, he found himself wondering if he shouldn't just call Derek and accept the money the older werewolf had offered him before his departure. He didn't like that idea as it implied his journey had become the failure Peter had predicted. However, if he needed to rush back home because something bad had happened, he would swallow his pride and make that call. That was plan B when he got on the plane in New York.

Until he figured out what he wanted, he would stay in Paris. There were worse places to come up with a plan A, right?


End file.
